


until i’m able to see your face

by maxmayfield



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Caretaking, Eleven | Jane Hopper and Mike Wheeler in Love, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Good Significant Other Mike Wheeler, Hopper and Mike hating each other was wack, Hopper reflects on his son-in-law, Injury, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Injuries, Protectiveness, Reflection, Tree Climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24353740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxmayfield/pseuds/maxmayfield
Summary: Mike takes care of El. Hopper is grateful, and only somewhat begrudging.
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 15
Kudos: 73





	until i’m able to see your face

Before the diagnosis, that had changed everything, Sara had known little pain in her life. The occasions that exempted this general rule stuck out in Hopper’s memory, before her fall with cancer and once it was over too, because those were the moments that had once caused him the most panic, the moments that seemed like such insufficient preparers for what was to come.

She would have nightmares, sometimes, or trip over the pavement and land on her knee, that would spurt with blood that dripped down to her socks. She reacted similarly in every instance that something like this happened - she would cry out, scream, call for her mother or her father. Sometimes instinct grappled with a need for maternal comfort, but other times - most of the time, Hopper reminded himself, swelling with pride, with a rich ache - she called for him. She called for Daddy, to come over and kiss her scabs and tears, to make the pain disappear and replace it with love.

The traumas El had known were boundless. Hopper had known this when taking her in, was more than aware that this had every possibility of radicalising his experience of fatherhood. But her reactions to feeling fear and spilling blood were similar to Sara’s - she tended to scream and cry, to call out for the person she trusted to make it better.

El never called for Hopper. Every nightmare, every scratch, every time she was upset or hurt or afraid, El asked for the boy, Mike. The boy whose basement she had hidden in, the week after she had first escaped the lab.

“I want Mike,” she would tell him, pleadingly, tactless to the unspeakable guilt her request unspun in his chest.

“Mike,” she would mumble, or shout, or sob.

These were phrases Hopper was very familiar with, things she had been saying to him for as long as she had lived with him.

It wasn’t something that he could give her until after a year of her staying with him. A dependency on a teenage boy wasn’t something he was exactly willing to encourage in her, regardless, which meant that his access to Mike in the aftermath of El managing to close the gate wasn’t something he intended to exploit. But the ease of after compared to before was noticeable, the hellishness that had been those painfully denied occasions coming to an abrupt end when Hopper realised that Mike was only ever a phone call away.

He was a good kid. He genuinely loved El, which was surprising and often entertaining, undoubtedly relieving. But he was also kind, and far too clever, clever to the point of solemness, that bred some anxiety and a lot of caution, a lot of sensibility and maturity. Hopper trusted Mike, liked him, even if he did have a bit of a mouth on him and was more aware of what a pushover Hopper was than what was comfortable.

Hopper had no doubt that Mike and El would marry someday, be together forever. He had no doubt that there would never be an instance where El called for Mike and he didn’t answer. It was for these reasons, for Mike’s sincere love and sincere goodness, that Hopper’s qualms about teamwork began to fade. It only made sense for the people who cared about El the most to work together, after all.

So it became a habit for Hopper to dial Mike’s phone number when El had nightmares, have him coax her through the aftershocks rather than Hopper’s wobbly attempts. There were times that El beat him to it, called for Mike to come over, and Hopper would find the boy in the cabin at two in the morning, wearing pyjamas and a coat, bike flung somewhere out the front, clutching a shaking El tightly to him and murmuring assurances of safety in her ear.

The worst of instances that warranted a need for Mike occurred, thankfully, after that dreadful year had passed. In the safe after, where Hopper had the near magical influence of Mike on a frightened El at his disposal.

It was still something horrible to behold. It was late afternoon, the sun hanging limply yellow in the sky, and Hopper was smoking in a sort of dreamy daze, standing in the grass outside the cabin as El ran circles around him. She liked getting outside, looking at the sky, feeling the wind on her face, and it was something that he could no longer bring himself to deny her, his yearning to keep her safe in a fierce battle against his will for a life of normalcy for her.

Pain was normalcy, he would try to remind himself, when the loud sound of a tree cracking filled his ears. He whipped around, just in time to watch as the branch of the tree El was climbing - and really, he was supposed to be supervising her, how hadn’t he noticed that she was climbing a tree, mounting a fragile branch? - crumbled beneath her. El stared at him in blank surprise as a squeal slipped from her throat, as she hurtled to the ground in a mess of limbs and leaves.

There was a heavy slam, as her ankle collided with the unforgiving edge of a large rock hidden in the grass. The second crack wasn’t quite as loud, but much more worrying. El’s second scream was even more involuntary, less surprised and more absolutely agonised - and, shaped around a syllable, trying to call Mike’s name.

“Mike!” she was startled, her voice hollow with disconnect. “ _Mike_.” 

Something was wrong with her ankle, Hopper deduced instantly, as the cigarette dropped from his fingers and he lurched towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders, and he took her gaze with a frantic intensity.

“Don’t look at it,” Hopper said, removing one hand to place it above the twisted, bloodied flesh of her leg.

El whimpered, disobeyed. She winced, shoulders drawing up by her earlobes, the moment that she spotted the quickly swelling skin, the unveiled red beneath.

“It’s bad,” she said.

“It’s not bad,” Hopper insisted, and took her chin to tilt it away from her leg. “Don’t look at it. I’m going to pick you up and take you inside, alright? We can’t risk a hospital… I’ll call Joyce… ”

“And Mike.”

“Yeah. And Mike.”

Mike came hurtling onto the scene in his usual dramatic fashion, the same way he always did whenever El’s idle peacefulness was in any way remotely threatened. It was certainly disturbing to see a child in such pain, a person he was so devoted to protecting, but Hopper was familiar enough with life to know that climbing thin branches had consequences and that sprained ankles were normal and manageable, even necessary. This sensibility offered a well-deserved element of hilarity for him, watching Mike’s overreaction.

The bike was discarded at the foot of the porch, and he threw himself through the door in a gangle of awkward, too-long limbs and a mop of shining ebony curls.

“El!” he called, tone caught between thunderous contempt at the offending branch, the endless tenderness he regarded El with, and such distraught Hopper might have assumed there had been a death.

El matched his melodrama, placing her hands on either side of her on the sofa as if to attempt to lift herself from its cushions and fling herself at her boyfriend.

“Ah, nuh uh uh,” Hopper immediately chastised, pushing her back onto the sofa.

Mike reacted at the same time, bounding over in three long strides and clasping El’s hand in his. “Don’t move!” he exclaimed.

“Mike,” was all El said in response, tugging at his shirt to pull him beside her, fitting herself against his side, tucking her head below his chin. He sagged on the sofa, lifted one hand and rested it lightly on her knee, thumb stroking a circle on the bone.

“It’s okay,” he murmured to her breathlessly, sounding relieved, as though he were assuring himself as well.

They made a sweet picture, Hopper was big enough of a man to admit.

“You beat Joyce here?” Hopper suddenly realised, aloud.

“I guess,” Mike was noncommittal.

“She has a car.”

“El is hurt!” As if that explained everything.

“She has a car,” Hopper reiterated, bewildered but somehow also not at all.

There was no answer - they weren’t listening to him, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Corduroy Dreams by Rex Orange County 
> 
> I haven't posted on here in forever due to perfectionism but I have a lot written and I'm posting this on a whim, unsure if it's completely mediocre. I am tentatively planning on posting more of what I've written soon! 
> 
> I'm also thinking of starting a Tumblr where I would accept Mileven prompts. Would anyone be interested in that? 
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! <3


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